


Second

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Anal Sex, Disappointment, Ficlet, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry takes the closest thing he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know it’s a cliché but oh well, here anyway.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It hurts when he does it like this, so little preparation and not enough time, emotional or physical, just the quick unzipping and the climbing on. He pours his soul out in the doorway and mumbles useless things while he’s dragged to the chair, and then he’s straddling his best friend’s lap and not hearing a word back. He’s told to shut up halfway through, and Tom’s always-half-laughing voice tells him conspiratorially, “Harry, you’re ruining the mood.”

Harry grunts, “Sorry.” His teeth are grit. It hurts when he rises up, hurts when he sinks back down. Tom’s big—just as big as Harry thought he would be—a long, glorious cock to match the cocky attitude. Tom carries himself like a man who knows what to do in bed, and evidently, he does. 

He knows what he’s doing in the pilot seat of the delta flier, too. He sprawls out in it like he owns the damn thing—this amazing little ship he built from scrap metal and salvaged parts. It’s got all the style of _Tom Paris_ and all the heft of Voyager, all the wisdom and hardness of their withered experience. It’s not that different than the way he fucks—almost careless with confidence, but still so _powerful_ and _perfect._

Tom’s fingers are tight in Harry’s sides. They’re both still wearing uniforms, Tom’s blinding red and Harry’s dusty gold, lots of black in the dim lights. Harry’s arms are around Tom’s shoulders, holding more tenderly than he’s held, and though it hurts so, _so_ much, he’s still painfully hard, tucked inside his pants. It hurts but it’s good, so very good. Tom always fucks him good. He doesn’t dare pull his own cock out. He’s the sidekick to Tom’s captain, and he doesn’t make moves without his orders. Maybe that’s why Tom’s a lieutenant and he’s just an ensign.

Tom nips at the side of his cheek, and Harry tilts his head obediently. His ear is bit, not so much nibbled as chewed, bruising and unforgiving. No safety. He isn’t kissed, isn’t cradled, even though Harry tries to nuzzle into Tom’s neck. Tom jerks away, squeezing his hips harder for punishment and warning, “Harry, don’t do that.”

Opening his mouth stupidly and closing it, Harry nods. Can’t do that. There’s nothing wrong with being _gay_ , not in the Federation, not in this time, but Tom’s _not_ , says he’s not, won’t let Harry _do that_.

 _Friend_ is such a damning term. Harry would never have agreed to it if he knew how much he would grow to love Tom by his side, how willingly he’d follow Tom _anywhere_ , how good Tom _fucks_. All that time in the holodeck they spend together—just the two of them—and they’ve never watched a sunset together or bathed on Riza. So much they could be doing, more personal, more intimate, Tom’s stronger, wiser, commanding arms around him, taking his naïve little always-stumbling self to the ends of their endless Earth. 

Harry’s thoughts break off in a sudden cry—Tom’s bit down into his neck, pulling back only to hiss, “Don’t be such a baby.” He says it like a private joke between them, both endearing and degrading. Harry nods and tries to look elsewhere, tries to concentrate on the way he’s riding Tom’s cock. Up and down. He’s lifting with his thighs and pushing himself all down, but Tom’s doing most of the work, pulling him off and shoving him on. He stuffs Harry so full, parts Harry’s half-dry walls and makes Harry tremble all over. The heat is almost unbearable. The sting is bad, but the fullness is so _good_. He always feels empty after he leaves. Sometimes he feels like he was made to house Tom’s cock, like this is what he’s truly meant for, like he’s placed on the bridge so Tom can have him any time, pin him against a wall or bend him over a console. He thinks of Tom fucking him in the captain’s chair and it makes his lashes flutter, makes him desperate and needy. He clings to Tom’s shoulders and wants to plead for more. 

He shouldn’t. He knows that. It’ll break the code they shouldn’t have, but he can’t help it, he licks his lips and he’s moaning, “ _Tom,_ ” wanton and breathless.

Tom grabs a chunk of his hair and jerks his head back. Tom’s mildly terrifying when he’s angry, perhaps because he’s so playful and jovial otherwise. This is a different matter. Tom starts fucking Harry faster, rutting his hips up to make Harry bounce harder, deliberately missing the right angle that’ll make Harry feel better. “Don’t talk,” Tom warns. “You’ll ruin it. You don’t even know what you’re doing. That’s why you need me to guide you, you _need_ me, Harry. It’s sad, really—” Tom’s voice takes on an almost cooing whisper, something deceptively soothing, so different from the hard thrusts that land him deep inside Harry, “—you want to be _mine_ so bad, but you have no idea what you’re doing—you just come off desperate and needy...”

Harry winces. He respects Tom, he does, and he knows, he _knows_ that he’s the naïve tag along. Captain Janeway’s respect for him isn’t Tom’s. Tom sees him for what he is. Tom’s grip in his hair tightens and his neck feels like it’s going to snap, and Tom repeats a snarled, “ _Harry_.”

And Harry gets harder, so close to coming that he can only moan his pulsing need.

He wants Tom to touch him. He wants Tom to touch him so badly. Those hands are so talented—they’ve taken him halfway across the galaxy, they built this ship, they could make Harry come undone so easily, if only they would slip into his pants and touch him...

But Tom’s a cruel master. He knows how to make Harry impossibly hard, dripping precum against tented pants and begging. As soon as Tom lets go of Harry’s head, Harry’s humping Tom like a bitch in heat. He’s rocking his body back and forth and meeting Tom’s thrusts, impaling himself over and over. Tom chuckles at him: always such a good soldier. Tom used to tease him for following orders so well. Now it’s rewarded with the soft petting of his thighs and a growled, “You’re mine, Harry, all mine...”

All Harry wanted to hear. Harry’s eyes close. He nods, and he leans into Tom. He squeezes himself around Tom’s massive cock, wanting nothing more than to please Tom, please Tom so much. Tom hisses and bites him again and growls a string of dirty names into Harry’s ear, and Harry ripples with it all. He can feel Tom burst inside him, feel Tom fill him, feel it wet his insides. He curls into Tom in a crippling cocoon, wanting to meld them into one. 

He wants Tom’s to say three words to him, tell him this is more than sex. Tom’s groaning with pleasure. 

Tom comes down, slowly, slowly, and he won’t say it. 

He isn’t programmed to. 

Harry’s still hard. Still shaking. He’s full of seed that doesn’t have the potency it should: no more than synthehol. He doesn’t want to uncurl.

But Tom pushes him gently back. Tom kisses his forehead and tells him quietly, “Get off me, Harry.”

Harry nods like a scolded child. Or an ensign ordered by a lieutenant. He pulls himself off Tom’s flagging cock and pulls his pants back up, and he mutters, “Computer... end program.”

And he’s left with nothing, not even the traces inside him, and he stares blankly at the grey floor where a cheap facsimile of Tom Paris used to be. 

He didn’t program the _I love you_ s because he doesn’t deserve them. He scrunches his face up. He feels like nothing and a coward. 

He sucks in a breath and sits down, waiting for the evidence to disappear enough to walk through the corridors without so much shame, and he tries to formulate what he’ll say to at least end the uncertainty. He’ll say how he feels... sometime. 

His commbadge beeps. 

He doesn’t know what to say to it. 

He lies down on the floor—his ass is sore but he does it anyway—and he stares up at the grey ceiling and he wonders vaguely if Tom’s really as big as the computer thinks he is.


End file.
